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HOBOING IN THE WEST IN THE 80'S
By Limestone (W. E.) Wilson
In the spring of '8 I, I was living with the Neligh Brothers, George and Dave, in
the town of Rockford 25 miles south of Deadwood in the Black Hills. Times were tough.
It had been an extremely hard winter and many of the mines were shut down, so over
1,000 men were unemployed in the various mining camps of the Hills. There was nothing
at all doing at Rockford and Dave Neligh went over to Deadwood saying if he found
anything to do he would let George and I know at once. In a few days we received letter
from Dave telling us to come over at once as he had a contract to cut cordwood. When
we arrived there we found the wood was to be cut in dead timber near the head of
Blacktail gulch about 2 miles north of Central City. There would not be much in it for the
dead pine was hard to split and the snow was 6 feet deep which involved lots of
shoveling after a tree was felled before we could saw it. But the price was $2.00 per cord
and we felt that was better than doing nothing so we tackled it.
We started cutting March 1st and continued till about May I st, then the man we
were cutting for said he had been disappointed in getting teams and could not take the
wood we had cut. Something had to be done at once for we were out of grub. We had 120
cords of wood cut but nobody seemed to want to buy it. Finally we found a Frenchman
who had a lot of teams and was on the lookout to buy wood from people who were in a
pinch like we were. He offered us $1.00 a cord for the wood and as that seemed to be the
best we could do, we decided to accept the Frenchman's offer and leave the Hills.
Dave said he was going to New Mexico, but George and 1 decided to go to
Montana and get work on the Northern Pacific R. R. then building along the
Yellowstone. In those days if a man wanted to go anywhere, he laid his blankets down,
rolled them in a long roll with his spare clothes and some grub inside the roll, tied the
ends of the roll together, put it over his shoulder and under the opposite arm sash fashion
and went. Distance cut no figure, for at that time there was plenty of room in the west for
miles and all distances were long.
The Deadwood papers during the last few days had been printing considerable news
about hostile Indians in the country George and I would have to pass through. Buffalo
were fast disappearing, and young-man-afraid-for his-horses at one of the Lower agencies
on the Missouri river, had obtained from the government a permit for his band of Sioux to
go on a last buffalo hunt. These Indians, who were mostly young warriors, had been given
no opportunity to do some easy scalping since the Custer fight nearly 5 years previous.
This hunt gave them a chance and they decided to do some scalping while the scalping was
good. So as soon as they left the agency they scattered into small bands and put on the
warpaint. When one of these Indian bands come on to a party of white men

HOBOING IN THE WEST IN THE 80'S
By Limestone (W. E.) Wilson
In the spring of '81, I was living with the Neligh Brothers, George and Dave, in the town of Rockford 25 miles south of Deadwood in the Black Hills. Times were tough. It had been an extremely hard winter and many of the mines were shut down, so over 1,000 men were unemployed in the various mining camps of the Hills. There was nothing at all doing at Rockford and Dave Neligh went over to Deadwood saying if he found anything to do he would let George and I know at once. In a few days we received letter from Dave telling us to come over at once as he had a contract to cut cordwood. When we arrived there we found the wood was to be cut in dead timber near the head of Blacktail gulch about 2 miles north of Central City. There would not be much in it for the dead pine was hard to split and the snow was 6 feet deep which involved lots of shoveling after a tree was felled before we could saw it. But the price was $2.00 per cord and we felt that was better than doing nothing so we tackled it.
We started cutting March 1st and continued till about May 1st, then the man we were cutting for said he had been disappointed in getting teams and could not take the wood we had cut. Something had to be done at once for we were out of grub. We had 120 cords of wood cut but nobody seemed to want to buy it. Finally we found a Frenchman who had a lot of teams and was on the lookout to buy wood from people who were in a pinch like we were. He offered us $1.00 a cord for the wood and as that seemed to be the best we could do, we decided to accept the Frenchman’s offer and leave the Hills.
Dave said he was going to New Mexico, but George and I decided to go to Montana and get work on the Northern Pacific R. R. then building along the Yellowstone. In those days if a man wanted to go anywhere, he laid his blankets down, rolled them in a long roll with his spare clothes and some grub inside the roll, tied the ends of the roll together, put it over his shoulder and under the opposite arm sash fashion and went. Distance cut no figure, for at that time there was plenty of room in the west for miles and all distances were long.
The Deadwood papers during the last few days had been printing considerable news about hostile Indians in the country George and I would have to pass through. Buffalo were fast disappearing, and young-man-afraid-for his-horses at one of the Lower agencies on the Missouri river, had obtained from the government a permit for his band of Sioux to go on a last buffalo hunt. These Indians, who were mostly young warriors, had been given no opportunity to do some easy scalping since the Custer fight nearly 5 years previous. This hunt gave them a chance and they decided to do some scalping while the scalping was good. So as soon as they left the agency they scattered into small bands and put on the warpaint. When one of these Indian bands come on to a party of white men
who were stronger than themselves, each Indian would produce a paper designating him a good Indian, his sterling qualities attested by the agent at the reservation. And if invited, would eat all of the white man’s grub he could hold handily and depart in peace. But if the Indian party was much the stronger, no certificate of character was shown, and it was "goodby John" for the whites.
A couple of small hunting parties and an isolated ranch or two had been cleaned up by the Indians, and the government was beginning to think seriously of doing something about it. But George and I were not concerned about Indians. There was a government road and telegraph line extending from Ft Meade in the Hills to Ft Keogh on the Yellowstone near Miles City. And it was our intention to follow this road along which there was someone living at distances apart varying from 25 to 40 miles, except between Stoneville on the Little Missouri and Crow creek where for a distance of 60 miles no one lived and the coyotes yapped loudly at strangers. But we figured we could take plenty of grub from Stones and make that stretch in a couple of days easily. I had been out 100 miles on that road that winter hunting buffalo and knew the way. We had given our woodcutting tools to some nearby woodchoppers and on a bright 1st day of May said our goodbyes to Dave, and started our journey.
It was quite warm and the snow in the mountains was going fast, but when we reached the prairie in Spearfish valley we found the snow all gone and the road perfectly dry. We arrived at the Belle Fourche about 3 P.M. of the second day. The stream at this point was about 60 feet wide and 3 feet deep. The water was pretty swift and we concluded to camp for the night, thinking that perhaps a team and wagon might come along so we could ride across. There were two log cabins at the crossing, one empty, and the other occupied by a halfbreed and his wife. The breed told us we could sleep in the empty shack. We could see a camp of soldiers at some distance across the stream. The next morning we were astir early and as no wagon had appeared, decided to wade the stream. Taking off our boots (everybody wore boots in those days) and most of our clothes and carrying them on our shoulders we made the crossing all right though George nearly fell when in the center of the current. The soldiers had broke camp but we overtook them at Iron creek 6 miles from the Belle Fourche. There were 2 companies of cavalry and 4 companies of colored infantry. About 350 men in all and they were going out to roundup the Indians I have spoken of. The army doctor was making the colored soldiers drink the Iron creek water, telling them it would keep them from getting sick. I had sampled that water the previous winter and would very much have preferred being sick to drinking it.
The colored troops fought nobly against drinking it, but in the army the doctors’ orders are orders, and they had to make a pretense at least of drinking, and there were many wry faces. When we caught up with the wagons the commander rode up to us and said, "Boys throw your blankets in the wagon". We did so gladly for the day was extremely hot for so early in spring. George and I walked much faster than the soldiers traveled, so we pushed on ahead and reached Stoneville at 2:30 P.M., an hour in advance of the troops. Stoneville was a supply point for hunters and trappers, horse thieves, road agents, and others of that ilk, and an occasional band of Indians. Lou Stone ran a
store and saloon in a very large log building one end of which had formerly been another saloon but was now vacant. Stone who was a very genial sort of man told us to move into the vacant room. There was a large fireplace and Stone lent us a Dutch oven to bake some bread, and we decided to lay over a day there and make some inquiries about some buffalo hunters, friends of ours, with a view to locating their camp. We had known them in the Hills for a long time and wished to visit them before leaving the country.
After we had eaten dinner and were lounging on the outside of the building I asked one of the colored troops who his commander was. He replied, "why dats Col. Benteen de great Indian fitah." I noticed the Colonel then more closely. He was soft voiced and had a fatherly bearing toward his troops. His personality was rather striking. Short but stockily built, and straight as an arrow, his kindly blue eyes beaming from a round face shaved so clean it looked as though it had never had a whisker on it. His complexion burned deep red by the prairie winds contrasted vividly with his pure snow white hair. Altogether, he hardly looked the fighter that he was. Shortly after I found out who he was, the Colonel who was walking by with a couple of other officers, stopped and asked me where we were headed for. I told him we were going to the Yellowstone to work on the Northern Pacific. He replied, "Well now boys, it is just as much as your lives are worth to cross this country now. You must stay right her at Stones for a couple of weeks while my boys and me round up these reds. Then everything will be perfectly safe and you can go on".
The next morning one of Stones bartenders a very natty looking young man in a tailor-made suit and sailor strawhat, the only clothes of the kind I had seen in several years, came in to visit with us. I asked him if he thought there was any one around who would know where Frost and Downing Camp was. "Why yes", he said, "Stump will know. I’ll call in Stump". Then he told us about Stump. Stump was a younger son of some big English Family. He did not seem to amount to much at home, so his folks gave him what was coming to him and sent him over to America to grow up with the country. When he landed in New York he invested his money in a poker game and the cards didn't come right. Then he drifted west working at odd jobs along the way, and finally wound up at Stones and went into the horse stealing business and was doing well at it.
The winter before when stump had a camp out about 20 miles, he came in one day and bowled up on some of Stones Little Missouri Bourbon. Then went out and got stalled in a blizzard and froze his feet so part of each foot had to be amputated. At that time he name was Clarence Montmorency or something like that, but the amputation gave him such a stumpy look his name didn't fit him. So they named him Stump. When Stump came in I asked him if he knew where the Frost and Downing camp was. "Why yes" he said, "they are on Boxalder. You go down the river 10 miles, then go 30 miles over to Box Alder and you can't miss them". It did not sound very explicit to me, but it turned out he was right. The bartender had just bought a new Winchester rifle which he had been showing us before Stump came in. Stump picked up the gun and the bartender asked him if he knew how to handle that kind of a gun. "0 yes" said Stump and "bang" went the gun. I had hung my coat in a corner of the room and was by it getting some tobacco out of a pocket. The bullet went about 6 inches over my head and into the top of the coat,
which was hanging in wrinkles, and made 5 holes through it. A bran new coat I had just bought in Deadwood a few days before. Stump apologized and said he didn't know the gun was loaded. Stump asked the bartender what he would take for the gun. The bartender said $13.00 and Stump turned instantly and walked out. The bartender said Stump was very superstitious about the number 13. It was on the 13th of the month, and he had taken 13 drinks and got out 13 miles when he froze his feet. Late that summer I heard of Stump again. 5 days after we left Stoneville a sheriff’s posse came there and came in shooting. Stump was down at the river watering his bunch of horses and hearing the shooting thought there might be something wrong, so he kept behind the brush on the opposite side and went up the river some distance then out into the broken country and got away. He made his way down into the northern Nebraska and joined the Doe Middleton gang of outlaws. This gang had originally operated on the laudable principle of robbing only the rich. But robbing is a habit that has an insidious and fairly rapid growth, and with the Middleton gang the habit had reached a point at which they would rob anybody. The ranchmen around that country had got tired of losing their stock, and they organized a vigilance committee which overnight surrounded a camp of the outlaws and captured 13 of the gang, whom they at once hung on one of the stringers under the North Platte Bridge. And was told that Stump was the 13th man on the west end. But I have digressed. George and I started down the river about 3:30 in the afternoon intending to try and find the Frost and Downing camp and if successful, make a short visit and work back to the telegraph road again. Just as we had reached a point we thought was about 10 miles from Stoneville, we came to the camp of 3 beaver trappers. It was late and we decided to camp there overnight. After supper, in conversation with the trappers we told them where we were going and why. One of them who said his name was Klipenger said we would be foolish to go to Miles, as there was no work there and lots of idle men. He told us he lived in Miles City and knew the conditions. And he farther said that in the morning he would take us up on the knoll back of the camp and show us a pass 60 miles from there that went through the Powder river range. He told us that if we went through that pass we would come right down on to the head of O'Fallon creek, which we could follow down to the Yellowstone and come out right where there was lots of work going on. And he farther said we would strike hunting outfits every day who would be glad to see us, and it would cost us nothing for grub. He mentioned the names of two outfits he said were on that route, which we had known in Deadwood, and he ended up by telling us he and his partners had come through that way about 2 months before. It sounded good, and I told Klipenger we would decide after we reached the camp of our friends. The following morning we started early and after wading the stream, which was only a foot deep and 50 feet wide, we noticed the track of a wagon that had crossed there evidently the previous fall. There was 5 men in the Frost and Downing outfit and we knew that one of them, George Ayers, had been to Deadwood in the fall getting supplies. So we decided to follow this track for a while on the chance that Ayers had made it. After we were out on the prairie there was no difficulty in following the track for the ground had been quite soft when it was made.
The country was a slightly rolling grass covered prairie, and every place looked just like every other place. We had nothing to guide us except the wagon track, and we were far from sure that it was a good thing to follow, for wagon tracks were likely to be anywhere in that country, of no roads, and people looking for hunting grounds. But we kept on walking. The heat was terrific, our packs weighed 30 lbs. each, and the perspiration streamed off of us. We each had a bottle which we had filled with water at the river, but the water was soon gone. We did not stop for lunch at noon as we wanted to reach water before eating. So we kept on walking, walking, walking. From anything we could tell by the looks of the country we were right where we started in the morning.
It was about 4:30 P.M. when suddenly right in front of us loomed two large tents. They were set in a flat bottomed grass covered coulee deep enough to hide them until we were within 50 yards of them. There was no one there, but there was evidence that someone had been there that day. We looked around and found things we knew belonged to the Frost and Downing outfit, which made it certain we had reached their camp. There was a small spring of excellent water and after we had quenched our thirst, we looked into the grub box and found some bread and cooked meat to which we done impartial justice. After resting a short time we built a fire intending to have supper ready when the boys came in. We were just fairly started when Lengthy Davis and old man Babcock arrived in camp. They were mighty glad to see us as they had seen no outsiders for over 6 months. They said they were all that were there as Frost and Downing had both gone out with loads of hides, and Ayers had gone to Deadwood. They themselves had been out skinning some buffalo they had killed late the day before. The next morning they got their team, which they kept some distance down the coulee where there was fine grazing, hitched on to the wagon and we all went after the hides. On the way we ran into a small band of buffalo. Davis and Babcock gave us the rifles and George and I each killed one. We skinned them and took the hides in with the rest, 11 hides in all. We stayed with Davis and Babcock 3 more days, and we told them what Klipenger had said. They said there was a pass there, but whether or not there were hunter’s camps, they could not say. I asked Davis about Indians. He said, "Well, there are Indians, but we haven't seen any." Haven't you got a gun?" I told him no and he told Babcock they had better give us their old six-shooter. It was an old cap and bell Colts of civil war vintage made over to shoot Henry rifle rim fire cartridges. They only had 7 cartridges to go with the gun. Davis said that 10 days before our arrival, Indians had cleaned out a hunting outfit 25 miles below there killing 4 men and burning their outfit. But he said if we went through the pass, we would likely go to one side of the country the Indians were operating in. After going over the matter pro and con, George and I decided we would go by way of the pass. Davis said it was about 40 miles from their camp. The next morning we filled our water bottles and got started shortly after daylight intending to reach the pass before dark. After going about 5 miles we struck a main buffalo trail that followed the direction we wished to go. These main trails were the ones the buffalo used when traveling long distances. And they always followed the most direct route and easiest grades. The buffalo traveled single file on them, and this trail we had found had been traveled so much it was worn down to a foot in depth and in places 18 inches.
Before night we were to have an experience on the trail which I believe, is unique in the annals of the west. At least I have never heard of it happening to anyone else. Probably because no one else was foolish enough to start through a country like that on foot. The trail rose gradually till it reached the foothills, then led along the side of the range almost level except where it crossed the heads of coulees or gulches. By 10 A.M. we had reached a point on the trail where we could see down the Little Missouri valley more than a hundred miles. From where we were the country looked level except for some curious shaped hills of white formation that seemed to rise abruptly out of the prairie about 50 miles away. They were known as Chalk buttes. Numerous creeks ran through the country as we could see by the lines of brush and timber and they all headed up near the ridge along the side of which we were traveling. But so far all had been dry where the trail crossed them. This was the hottest day we had experienced, and before noon our water bottles were empty. 4 or 5 miles below us all the creeks had water as we could tell by the brush along them. But we kept thinking that in the next coulee we would find water. Some of them were a little damp which kept up our hopes for water in the next one. Sometime after noon we came to quite a large coulee and thought we would surely find water there. But as we reached the brink of the coulee we found 11 head of buffalo that had evidently been looking for water too. They had not found any and were just stringing out along the trail as we came in sight of them. We were within 50 yards of them but above them and they moved along the trail without seeing us. Buffalo depend entirely on their scent for locating an enemy, and when going anywhere always travel by the wind. They pay little attention to what is behind them for they scented nothing as they came along there. Because of their extremely short neck they cannot turn their head to look back like a horse or cow, but must turn their whole body. There was a very light breeze, just enough so the buffalo could scent nothing behind them, and as we followed along the trail I soon saw we were gaining on them. I was in the lead and whispered back to George to keep perfectly quiet and we would see how close we could get to the herd. We drew up on them till I was within 3 feet of the rear buffalo, a yearling, and we marched along with that herd of wild buffalo for at least two miles so close that I could have reached my hand out at any time and laid it on the rump of the yearling. At length the leader, an enormous bull, stopped, and of course the rest of us had to stop too. The leader evidently wished to make a survey of the country back of us and see if everything was all right. He raised his front feet out of the trail, turned half around, looked back and saw us. He gazed unbelievingly for an instant, then gave a terrific snort. Instantly the herd jumped from the trail and went about 20 yards, then all line up facing us. They were astonished. Utterly amazed. They had traveled for hours and seen nothing, heard nothing, and smelled nothing. And there we were. It was incredible. The American bison at his best is not a peaceful looking animal. And these animals partly shed but with patches of long hair scattered over them, their bodies well plastered with mud, had almost anything but a benign appearance. To put it plainly they looked fierce. On the outside of my bedroll was a bright red blanket. K knew that some animals had a serious objection to this color. I said, "George, do you suppose they are going to charge on us?" He replied, "damfino, what'll we do?". Just at the moment I could not think of anything that might ease the
situation. My mind ran largely to trees, but we could see a distance of 50 miles or more in several directions and there not a tree in sight. It was perhaps 2 minutes that we and herd stood facing each other without a movement, but it seemed hours. Then the herd appearing to reach the conclusion that it was really us, and not the figment of a fevered brain, turned tail and thundered away.
I will pause here to state that we were damn glad of it.
We resumed our journey and shortly saw the buffalo going over a ridge 3 miles away still at top speed and evidently out to get the nonstop record. I think they were as badly scared as we were. Which is saying a whole lot. We reached the pass just at dusk. There was an Indian travois trail there that from its appearance had been traveled for many generations by the red men, but there were no signs of recent travel on it. Our buffalo trail ran along to one side of the travois trail, and for a quarter of a mile it was upgrade. By the time we reached the top it was dark. When I say dark, I mean dark. It seemed as though we could reach out and take hold of the gloom. There was no moon but I thought I had never seen so many stars in my life. They seemed however, to give no light at all. We could not see the trail at our feet; it was easy though to follow it because of its depth. There was not a breath of wind and the air was stifling. We had not drank since 11 in the morning. Suddenly I thought I heard frogs and stopped. George said there was no chance for frogs away up where we were and we started on again. Then we both heard it, and it was frogs straight ahead. What sweet music they made. We went ahead carefully until we knew the sound was close, then I made out a long white object close to the trail. It proved to be a fresh peeled teepee pole and beside it was a small pile of short pieces of dry wood. About 10 feet distant was the water, an ancient buffalo wallow full of rainwater. Celestial nectar could have tasted no better. It was clear there had been Indians in the vicinity, and quite recently, probably that very day. But we were not so much concerned about Indians as we were about eating. We built a fire and made coffee, warmed some meat and were shortly outside of a beautiful supper. There was not a cloud in sight and we were so beat out we spread our bed and turned in leaving everything open and uncovered. We both awoke at the same moment. It was broad daylight, but the sky was overcast and a thick drizzling rain was falling. All our sugar and nearly all our salt was melted. A quarter of a mile away we could see tree tops rising above the edge of the tableland we were on. Hastily bundling everything up we made fast tracks for the timber. We found it a timbered gulch, the head of a large valley that extended off to the west, a right angle from our route. As I was making my way down about 50 yards in advance of George, I heard a twig crack and looking to the right, there stood 18 deer looking at me in wild eyed astonishment and not 20 yards distant. The six-shooter was in the bedroll and when George came up, we paused only long enough to count the deer and then made for a large pine tree in the bottom of the gulch. There were plenty of pitch pine chunks lying around and we soon had a roaring fire. Then it began to snow. And such a snowstorm. Could there have been a movie made of it, no one who saw the picture would believe it a natural storm. No single flakes of snow reached the ground. The snow fell in great flat blobs and bunches from 1 to 2 feet in diameter and two to three inches thick. There was no wind, and high in the air the large damp snowflakes were so thick they stuck together
and came down in loose flat chunks, getting on the ground like miniature parachutes and melting at once. It lasted all day and the sound made by those chunks landing was like the low continuous rumble of distant thunder. About 4 P.M. the storm quit and the clouds disappeared. The sun shining on the hills and the green valley below us made a scene of indescribable beauty. The ground everywhere around us was covered with deer tracks and I told George I would take the six-shooter and try to get one. He was skeptical but I said if they were as tame as those we saw in the morning I could get one. I started across the low ridges on the side of the gulch and while there were lots of tracks I could see no deer. After walking a mile or so across the ridges I saw 2 deer feeding on the ridge beyond me and took a long range shot at them. I thought I hit one for they both ran down the ridge into some cedar brush. As I was following them I happened to glance down toward the valley and there I saw 5 deer go into a shallow flat bottomed coulee and start feeding. By going carefully I could get quite close to them, so I let the first 2 deer go and went after the 5. I got within 25 yards of them but my antique gun was so inaccurate it took 4 shots to bag a large deer. This left me only 2 out of my 7 cartridges, but I reflected that the gun was just about as effective empty as loaded anyway except at very close range, and reasoned that if we did get in contact with Indians the 2 shells would make 2 noises and apprise the enemy that we were armed, and therefore dangerous people to fool with. The doe was skinpoor but I took a hindquarter and struck for camp. The head of the flat valley for a quarter of a mile before converging into a gulch was covered with young timber. When I got inside these pines I found myself surrounded by deer. They were thick everywhere and tame as barnyard cow. Deer lying in my path would arise lazily, step off a few feet to one side and regard me with their big eyes full of wonderment. It was obvious that they had never seen a human at close range. When I reached the bank just above camp I looked toward the range of hills back of me and the whole side of the range was moving with feeding deer. I called George up and we watched them for a while and counted the number in a given space, then estimated that there were at least 10,000 deer in sight. They were mule deer, usually known as Blacktail and had never been hunted. Both whites and Indians hunting in that country, had given their entire attention to buffalo and if they wanted a change of meat, killed an antelope. Buffalo did not range in these timbered hills, so the deer had been unmolested and were so fearless that when George and I walked around among them they would crowd against each other to obtain a look at the strange two legged creatures. Early the following morning George and I were ready for the trail. After eating breakfast we had about a level teaspoon of salt left, and we sliced and cooked what venison we could cover sparingly with that, enough for 2 meals, and made our last flour into a loaf of bread that would go as far as the meat.
The snow of the day before had melted as it fell. There was not a cloud in sight, and a more beautiful spring morning would be hard to imagine. When we reached our trail we found the tableland of the pass to be about 200 yards wide flanked on either side by slightly higher ground that sloped upward to hills. But the trail was gently down grade in the direction we were going which was north. Where we struck the trail a low narrow ridge jutted out into the pass shutting off our view ahead. When we had rounded the end of this ridge we stopped and stared. Stretching away to the north was a panorama of
wierd curious lead colored shapes interspersed with red, white and varicolored scorio buttes, 100 miles in length. The most vivid imagination could hardly conjure such a scene. In all that vast expanse that we would see from our elevation no living thing animate or inanimate appeared. It was the Bad Lands. And to us, the chance of getting through such a country afoot and without grub seemed also bad. We held a conference, and any way we looked the situation it appeared bad. It was 70 miles at least, back to the telegraph road. It seemed that a buffalo trail as heavily traveled as the one we were on, must lead somewhere in a shorter distance than that. We could see down the table land ahead of us about 10 miles and there it appeared to stop abruptly against the bad lands. But we decided to go ahead. We had seen no signs of Indians except those at our first camp in the pass, and we had began to believe there was little danger of seeing any of the reds. However, we did take some precautions. We kept a sharp lookout always, and in all directions, stopping occasionally to look behind us. At night, we never failed to go some distance to one side of the natural line of travel, and make down our bed in some washout or coulee. And we never started off mornings before making a careful survey of the landscape. After deciding to go ahead, we had traveled about 5 miles, George in the lead, and he was saying he thought we had got past the Indian country. We were going straight north, and on the west about a mile distant was a long low ridge the upper or south end of which was topped by a conical butte nearly opposite of us. There was a slight rise of ground between us and the ridge that I could just see over the top of. As George was speaking I looked toward the butte just as two horsemen rode out from behind it.
Instantly I exclaimed, duck, George, Indians. We ducked. Then rising carefully and looking over the rise we saw 5 more come from behind the butte and ride down the end of the ridge. They appeared to be heading in the direction of our trail at a point half a mile back of us. To reach it they would have cross some high ground that would give them a view of the trail clear to the badlands. It was time to hide. Near us a small wash coulee came out of the rising ground, and stooping low we went into it. Not far from the mouth was a curve in the coulee and beyond the curve we stopped safely hid from anything that did not come closer than 10 feet from us. Then we watched. There was a fringe of low sagebrush on the top of the bank through which we could see without being seen. Presently the seven Indians reached the high ground and stopped. For ten minutes they scanned the country, shading their eyes with their hands and looking in all directions. Then after a short conference they rode off to the southwest almost directly away from us. If we had not hid, they would surely have seen us. We waited half an hour and then trudged out along the trail again. Reaching the badlands the trail kept straight on, but after we had gone about a mile the scene changed so suddenly we could hardly believe our eyes. Almost at our feet headed a creek that ran straight north and down which we could see for at least 50 miles. On the west the country sloped up gently from the creek and was covered with the fresh green of springtime. The landscape was dotted here and there with small bands of buffalo and larger bands of antelope, and was the most fertile looking country we had yet seem. To the east the rise was more abrupt but we could see that toward the north the badlands sheered off and the grassland widened. Whether this was O’Fallon creek or not, we could not tell. But it was straight north, and that was the
direction to the Yellowstone, so we would follow the creek. We followed it down 3 or 4 miles before there was any water in it and then it was strong with alkali. But we had our bottles and could fill them with rainwater we occasionally found in buffalo wallows. At noon we took a short rest but ate no lunch as we had only 2 meals left and wanted to get as far as possible with those. The trail ran for the most part close to the creek, and toward night we saw a number of horse tracks on the creek where they had watered, but no horses had followed the trail. About sundown we found a small pond of rain water and built a fire and made coffee. After our supper we went on the benchland and slept in a coulee. Everything seemed clear in the morning and we came back down, made the last of our coffee and ate the last of our grub. We were of good cheer, however, for we were expecting any time to arrive at the camp of some outfit of white hunters. There were plenty of buffalo, and the fact that no Indians were encountered, led us to believe they were afraid to hunt on the creek for fear of meeting a strong party of whites. The creek was merely a succession of deep pools with a rivulet trickling between them. There was no brush, but some fairly large cottonwood trees were scattered along singly and in small groups. Once on a straight stretch of the creek a large Canada goose came flying toward us. She was not more than 4 feet above the ground and was within 15 feet of us turned back the way she came from then came toward us again, and kept repeating the maneuver. We knew she had a nest near, and yet it was a strange place for a nest as the ground around there had no sort of cover on it. At length we came to a large tree that had been broken off by the wind, and there on top of the treestub 25 feet above ground was the gooses nest, built of sticks that overlapped the top of the stump on all sides, and with no cover at all. I had never heard of wild geese building nests in trees, but have learned since that they do so occasionally. That night we went to bed supperless. There was a cut bank that extended along the creek for a couple of hundred yards on the west side. It was unscalable for a horse, but we climbed up it to the bench and made our bed near the head of a small coulee that emptied into the creek some distance below. We were not more than 75 yards from the creek, but were secure from observation. In the morning both of us wakened at the same moment and heard voices. Peering stealthily over the bank we found the voices were those of 13 Indians who were watering their horses at creek. Besides their mounts there were several head of loose horses and 3 dogs. The Indians were all in warpaint, the black and red streaked on their faces showing plainly. George and I were not alarmed for it was evident their camp was in the hills on the east side where they probably had water enough for their own use, but not enough for the horses. This was made plain by the fact that when they started back they took no water with them, in fact none of them dismounted at the creek. The Indians had started back when suddenly one of the dogs jumped a jackrabbit and all 3 started after the rabbit. 2 of the dogs soon dropped out of the race, but the other one was fast and crowded the rabbit which crossed the creek and struck onto the butte we were on going past the upper end of the cut bank. The bench sloped gently up to a ridge about 300 yards away. The rabbit made for this ridge with the dog a close second but falling back. The rabbit had been running to the right and just as the two of them had reached a point that put us in a direct line between them and the Indians. The rabbit disappeared over the ridge and the dog stopped. The Indians had stopped to watch the race and then started on again laughing. The dog seeing where the Indians were started for them making a bee line right toward us, to say that we were scared is putting it mildly. We had felt safe from the Indians and now this dog would discover us and bring them back. Indian dogs and horses hated a white man like poison. And this dog on seeing us was likely to make a fuss that would tell the Indians something was wrong. It was a frightful moment. We lay flat against the bank waiting our doom. But we were spared. When within 75 yards of us, for some reason or other the dog turned and crossed the coulee 25 yards below us without seeing us. It was a close call. The dog soon joined the Indians and disappeared in the hills opposite. But we were so unnerved we stayed in the coulee an hour before resuming our journey. A short distance below the mouth of our coulee the creek bottom narrowed to a mere gulch and the trail ran along the bench on the west of the creek. After a couple of miles the creek bottom widened again and the trail went down a wash coulee onto it again. Just as the trail reached the creek it came around a sharp headland that extended nearly to the creek, and beyond this headland was a flat of about an acre on which lay a band of buffalo at rest. We would have given much for a picture of that scene. Every buffalo lay in exactly the same altitude as all the others. They lay facing away from us and in exact line with the wind. Their bodies were tilted slightly to the right with the legs doubled against the body. We were less than 15 feet from the nearest one, and as we stood there we counted them. Although I had hunted buffalo the previous winter this was the largest band I had ever seen. There were 47 of them. A decade previous, buffalo had roamed this county in uncountable thousands. And two years after our trip, not a single buffalo would have been found in the country we came through. After I finished counting the herd I gave a sharp yell. It really seemed as though they were all running without getting up. They were in action so quickly. We resumed our journey along the trail which still continued much the same as when we first struck it. It had been a boon to us as it was tramped level and hard so that walking on it was much easier than on natural untrod ground. About 11 o’clock we heard a shot on the east side of the creek. The land rose abruptly there and it was perhaps a hundred feet up the edge of the benchland. But thinking it possibly might be white hunters we crawled carefully up the slope and looked over. Not more than 60 yards away was a lone Indian starting to skin a buffalo he had dropped with a single shot from his Winchester, which we could see leaning against a bunch of sagebrush near him. A short distance away was picketed a big black American horse, undoubtedly looted from some white man. If there was ever anything that George and I wanted bad, it was that horse. He was big enough to carry both of us at good speed. We debated in whispers as to the advisability of trying to make a sneak on the Indian. But it did not look good. With our gun I could not be sure of hitting the Indian at a distance of 25 feet. The Indians Winchester was within 6 feet of him, and that he knew how to use it, the dead buffalo was ample evidence. Besides there were certain to be more Indians not far away. We decided to let the Indian live a while longer, and returned as quietly as possible to our trail. We had eaten nothing since breakfast the day before and were getting hungry, but there seemed no chance of eating right away. We had thought of waiting till the Indian had left his buffalo, and then getting some of the meat. But our second thoughts were different.
We had not been close enough to anything to kill it except buffalo, and with the gun we had it would be like trying to kill one with a popgun. Besides we had to keep our two cartridges to put up a bluff with in case we ran into Indians. At noon we stopped for a rest and found we had lost our smoking tobacco. This was a severe jolt. There would be nothing now to relieve the monotony of walking with empty stomachs. But there was. The country had flattened out and the valley widened considerably, and in an hour or so we came to a prairie town. It was a real metropolis that proved to be 30 miles long and a mile to four miles wide. I think there was an average of one prairie dog to each 10 feet square for the entire town. And every prairie dog that could see us was sitting up and yapping at us. It was like the blast from a dozen steam whistles, and it never stopped while we were in sight. We threw rocks at some of the nearest ones, and their cries were redoubled. For that whole 30 miles we had to shout to each other when speaking. The weather had turned extremely hot again and water holes had been scarce. We emptied our bottles at noon and at 3 P.M. we had found no water to refill them. George said he was going to drink from the creek, and although I tried to dissuade him, proceeded to do so. He became badly alkalied and if he had waited, would have only had to go half a mile farther to reach a pond of good water. We made down our bed early but did not sleep much for the whistling of the prairie dogs still rang in our ears although they had stopped as soon as were out of sight. The next morning George was in pretty bad shape, but there was nothing to do but continue on. As soon as we started the prairie dog racket began again, but about 11 o’clock they began to thin out some. George was getting pretty weak and wobbly and said he could not go much farther. It was about 11:30 when looking ahead I saw 2 wagons going over a hill about a mile distant. I told George to brace up and we would spring a little, for the people ahead were either white men or Crowe. The Sioux had no wagons. In a short distance we found the wagon track coming from the hills to the east on to the creek. The wagons had to go over the hill I saw them on because of a box canon the creek ran through. We kept on the track of the wagons and when we reached the top of the hill where we had seen them, we could see the smoke of their campfire on the bottom a quarter of a mile away. Arriving at the camp, we found it was 3 white men who were hunting meat for the railroad. They were old timers in the country and their names were Tom Quigley, All Foster and Al King. I said, "Boys, what’s the show for some chuck. We had breakfast 3 days ago, but have had no dinner yet". They laughed and said the show was good, and enquired where we were from. I told them but could see they did not believe me. It turned out that the Ft Lincoln and Ft Keogh road crossed the creek 5 miles below and they thought we had strayed away from that. They said the creek was O'Fallon and that it was 30 miles to the Yellowstone. There was a large dutchoven full of boiled buffalo tongues and a lot of other stuff for dinner none of which tasted bad. George and I did not eat like starving men as our appetites seemed to have left us. But they soon came back and for two weeks we could hardly eat enough to feel satisfied. The 3 men had hunted and trapped in that country for years and knew it well from the Yellowstone to the Little Missouri. And when we described the country we came through, they knew we were telling the truth. While we were having an after dinner smoke, Quigley looked at me a long time and finally said, "Say, young fellow, I guess you
don't know how lucky you are to be alive. When you left Stoneville you didn't have one chance in a hundred to get here." But George and I could not realize that we had been in any great danger. We were like the automobile speed fiends of today, who never think of the danger till the crash comes. The hunters told us there was a place at the mouth of the creek called Ferry Point, and there was a ferry across the Yellowstone there. They said there was no work there, but a few miles down the river where they were going to sell their meat, there was plenty of work. They told us we had better stay with them, and we gladly agreed to do so. They had 2 wagons and 2 teams and King rode horsback and done the herding. They also had a bunch of 7 or 8 loose horses which looked like Indian horses. One of these, a rather good looking buckskin mare seemed to be the leader of the bunch and when we were ready to pull out, she put up a vicious fight. King had to rope her and choke the wind out of her before he could get her in and tied behind the rear wagon where she was led along with the rest following her. The next morning when King went to bring in the horses the buckskin ran off up a narrow coulee till she reached a cul de sac. King could not follow on his horse so took his rope and went after her on foot. When he threw the rope on her she raised on her hind feet and came at him striking with her front feet and nearly got him. He stumbled and fell and barely managed to roll out of the way of her hoofs. But he held to the rope and after a struggle finally managed to subdue her. Then George and I were certain they were Indian horses. I asked King where they had got the horses and he replied, "0, picked em up." At Ferry Point we were told the hunters had not taken those horses out with them, so it was pretty clear the hunters had a brush with Indians, came out on top and got away with the horses. We arrived at Ferry Point at noon of the second day, but there being a saloon there all three of the hunters got drunk and we did not get away till the next morning. The first contractor’s camp we reached was Beanbelly Browns. He hired us and our troubles were over.

HOBOING IN THE WEST IN THE 80'S
By Limestone (W. E.) Wilson
In the spring of '8 I, I was living with the Neligh Brothers, George and Dave, in
the town of Rockford 25 miles south of Deadwood in the Black Hills. Times were tough.
It had been an extremely hard winter and many of the mines were shut down, so over
1,000 men were unemployed in the various mining camps of the Hills. There was nothing
at all doing at Rockford and Dave Neligh went over to Deadwood saying if he found
anything to do he would let George and I know at once. In a few days we received letter
from Dave telling us to come over at once as he had a contract to cut cordwood. When
we arrived there we found the wood was to be cut in dead timber near the head of
Blacktail gulch about 2 miles north of Central City. There would not be much in it for the
dead pine was hard to split and the snow was 6 feet deep which involved lots of
shoveling after a tree was felled before we could saw it. But the price was $2.00 per cord
and we felt that was better than doing nothing so we tackled it.
We started cutting March 1st and continued till about May I st, then the man we
were cutting for said he had been disappointed in getting teams and could not take the
wood we had cut. Something had to be done at once for we were out of grub. We had 120
cords of wood cut but nobody seemed to want to buy it. Finally we found a Frenchman
who had a lot of teams and was on the lookout to buy wood from people who were in a
pinch like we were. He offered us $1.00 a cord for the wood and as that seemed to be the
best we could do, we decided to accept the Frenchman's offer and leave the Hills.
Dave said he was going to New Mexico, but George and 1 decided to go to
Montana and get work on the Northern Pacific R. R. then building along the
Yellowstone. In those days if a man wanted to go anywhere, he laid his blankets down,
rolled them in a long roll with his spare clothes and some grub inside the roll, tied the
ends of the roll together, put it over his shoulder and under the opposite arm sash fashion
and went. Distance cut no figure, for at that time there was plenty of room in the west for
miles and all distances were long.
The Deadwood papers during the last few days had been printing considerable news
about hostile Indians in the country George and I would have to pass through. Buffalo
were fast disappearing, and young-man-afraid-for his-horses at one of the Lower agencies
on the Missouri river, had obtained from the government a permit for his band of Sioux to
go on a last buffalo hunt. These Indians, who were mostly young warriors, had been given
no opportunity to do some easy scalping since the Custer fight nearly 5 years previous.
This hunt gave them a chance and they decided to do some scalping while the scalping was
good. So as soon as they left the agency they scattered into small bands and put on the
warpaint. When one of these Indian bands come on to a party of white men